Veteran
by LadyRhiyana
Summary: [DISCONTINUED] Modern AU. [He spent seven years in 'Nam. He was a contract assassin: they sent him out with a list and when he returned with all the names crossed off, they gave him another one...]
1. Chapter 1

A/N – Just throwing this out to see what kind of reaction I get.

This AU was inspired by the book "Thai Horse" by William Diehl. I've tinkered with the RK timeline a bit, (okay a lot) and changed Kenshin's name to Kenjiro. Hopefully you'll understand.

Kenshin may be a bit OOC, and I've leant a bit towards the 'Battousai-as-alternate-personality' theory, although I don't normally subscribe to it.

Disclaimer – I don't own Ruroken. Don't sue.

* * *

Veteran

* * *

1983 - Bangkok

He sat, seemingly relaxed, at a table in the dim, murky corners of the club.

Caucasian, one would think, given the pale skin and the faint glimmer of red-brown hair – but no. A turn of the head, shifting shadows revealing high cheekbones, an old, faded scar, and slanted eyes…

'_A small, redheaded Eurasian with a scarred cheek,' _the investigator had said. _'He comes into the Grey Cat but not for the drink, not for the girls – he just sits in the corner and broods.'_

Kaoru drew her purse closer to her body and took a deep breath. She tried not to notice the naked, gyrating, twisting women all around her, their dark eyes flat and lifeless, jaded and often drugged. The men who watched them were no better – predatory, cruel and greedy, they whistled and clamoured at the dancers and watched her with contemptuous eyes.

It was not, she decided, a nice place. But she had no other choice.

As she drew nearer to his table she saw him raise his head, some instinct alerting him to her approach – he turned towards her, and met her eyes.

She gasped.

'_He spent seven years in 'Nam._ _He was a contract assassin; they sent him out with a list and when he came back in with all the names crossed out, they gave him another one…'_

"Are you," she paused, wet her lips nervously, "are you Kenjiro Hamill?"

He stared at her through narrowed, dangerous eyes, and she fought the urge to squirm. "Who sent you?" he asked, his voice low, flat, but undeniably American.

"My uncle. He told me he knew you, in '75." She pulled out a battered, pitted Zippo lighter with shaky hands and laid it on the table. "He said that you would recognize this."

He made no move to pick up the lighter. Under the steady gaze of those empty, golden eyes, she felt her courage falter. Stubbornly, she clenched her fists and raised her chin. She'd gone through too much, come too far, to back down now.

"_Do _you recognize it?" she demanded, terrified of her own bravado.

His eyes flickered and he looked down, reaching out with one hand – a surprisingly delicate hand – to nudge the lighter, turn it over; on the other side there was a chipped red, white and blue enamel picture of a bird, an American eagle, wings outspread, talons outstretched as it swooped down on imaginary prey.

"I recognize it," he said finally. "I remember…"

_

* * *

_

_1975_

_It was never completely silent in the jungle. All around him insects whirred and birds called, the damp, musty undergrowth rustled and crunched wetly and the trees constantly shifted – signs that a skilled hunter could interpret, if he had been out here long enough to understand. Ken had been in Vietnam for seven years, and in that time he'd become a very skilled hunter indeed._

_He stopped, held up a hand to call for a halt._

_To his right, Troung 'Johnny' Nguyen grinned evilly and hitched his weapon higher, fingers nervously playing with a flattened, misshapen bullet that had slammed into the cigarette case in his breast pocket just above his heart, knocking him over and breaking two of his ribs. He'd carried it ever since, a superstitious talisman of the luck that had carried him through two years of bloody jungle warfare. _

_To his left, James Genzai – not Jimmy, never Jimmy – was standing frozen still, his mouth moving soundlessly, his eyes terrified. He'd been in the army less than three months, and Ken had not been pleased with his presence on this mission. He was too young, too inexperienced and too naïve; he still believed in truth, honour and an all-pervasive Right. Unfortunately, he was the only one who could identify the target, and that was how Ken and Johnny had found themselves saddled with a raw tenderfoot – and how the horrified newcomer found himself in the company of two infamous killers. _

_Ken knew and understood; years ago, in another time and another world, he himself had volunteered to join this war. If only he'd known where it would lead him… _

_A change in the air alerted him, and he whipped his head around, almost scenting the approaching enemy. Ken and Johnny reacted automatically, melting into cover, but Genzai froze. The sharp, discordant babble of Vietnamese cut through the silence, rising in alarm as their presence was discovered, and the staccato crack of gunfire echoed through the jungle. Ken, cursing, cannoned into Genzai, knocking him off his feet and bearing him down to the ground, but it was already too late – thick crimson blood was welling from a tear in the newcomer's stomach. Johnny took one arm, Ken the other, and together they managed to drag him through the undergrowth searching for shelter of any sort… _

* * *

"I gave it to him," Ken said. "He wanted a last cigarette before he died; I told him to take the lighter and use it when the nurses weren't looking."

"He said you and Johnny Nguyen carried him twenty miles through the jungle back to the base."

He shrugged, acutely uncomfortable with the note of awe in the girl's voice. "He was an important senator's son – I had specific orders to bring him back unharmed."

Else, he would have left the fool to die – would he? No. The boy had been so painfully innocent he wouldn't have stood a chance on his own. It hadn't been in Kenjiro Hamill's make-up, either then or now, to let someone so helpless die.

Kenshin Himura, on the other hand…

_

* * *

_

_1968_

_He had volunteered to join the army on his eighteenth birthday, seduced by promises of adventure, patriotism, and saving the world from communism. His first month in Vietnam had been a horrifying shock, a rough introduction to the true reality of war in the jungle. During his second month – after his innocence and ideals had been tarnished by seeing too many of his friends and comrades die – he made the acquaintance of Major Katsura of military intelligence, who seemed fascinated by his talent for picking up languages and his familiarity with Southeast Asia. This was a product of his nomadic upbringing, trailing after his businessman father as he established business interests in Japan, Taiwan, Hong Kong, Singapore, Thailand and Malaysia. _

_During the next few months, they met occasionally – at the base, in nightclubs and bars in Bangkok, or Hong Kong, and they struck up a kind of friendship. Katsura played the wise older hand, taking him for his first tour of the red light district, giving him tips on safety and survival, and Ken opened up, pouring out his fears and frustrations to a man who understood, sympathized, and more importantly, would not think him weak._

_Looking back, Ken should have known there was something suspicious in such a friendship between a major and a lowly private. However, the true purpose of Katsura's cultivation of him was soon revealed – one night in Tokyo, Katsura asked him whether he thought he would ever make a difference, as a lowly infantry GI. Accustomed to speaking frankly to the major, Ken had admitted that he didn't think so – and then Katsura had, with great tact and delicacy, brought up the subject of assassination. _

"_Do you know anything about Japanese history, Ken?" Katsura had asked, his eyes dark and direct as he lit a cigarette with his Zippo, a red-white-and-blue enamel eagle flying proudly on the side. _

"_A bit, sir," he'd answered, focusing more on relaxing in the absence of gunfire than on abstract questions. _

"_Have you ever heard of a man named Battousai?"_

_That captured Ken's attention. "Hitokiri Battousai, sir? The Demon of the Bakumatsu? My Japanese cousins used to terrorise me with ghost stories whenever we stayed with them. I always slept with the light on those nights, after that." He'd smiled, then, remembering the innocence of his childhood._

_Katsura had laughed, deliberately allowing smoke to trickle out through his nostrils. One day, one perfect day not so long ago, he'd shown Ken how to do that. "Ghost stories, yes. But the tales are based on a historical figure – a rebel assassin, whose killings terrorized the city of Kyoto for more than three years." He took a sip of his orange juice – he never drank anything stronger – and looked pointedly at Ken. "The point I'm trying to make, Ken, is that those Japanese rebel leaders had the right idea. They took out key personnel in the military, in the government, and in the financial sector – and then when it came for the big armed push, they simply rolled over the government's forces."_

"_Are you saying…?" Suddenly the lightheartedness of the moment was gone._

"_That's what I do, Ken. That's what my unit is – agents who perform such operations –" _

"_Assassinations. Sir."_

"_If you must, then yes, assassinations. We eliminate – kill – key enemy figures that stand in the way of our military success. Just think – kill a key Vietnamese general before he can take his brigade out and wipe out a brigade of our men. Think of it as killing one man for the good of many." _

_Ken should have walked away then and there, refusing to have anything more to do with a man who could so easily speak of the greater good and killing in the same breath. His mother, who had lost a sweetheart in Hiroshima, could have warned him – but he'd been alone, away from home for far too long, and Katsura had done his work very, very well. There was no one he trusted more than the Major, and though naturally he had had misgivings, Katsura had made it sound plausible, reasonable, and even necessary. _

_The next day, Ken quietly transferred to Katsura's unit, beginning the training that would turn him into the deadliest, most efficient assassin in the shadow war. And when it came time to create a cover, he asked Katsura the one question he knew the Major had been waiting for, ever since their discussion that day in Tokyo. _

"_What was his real name, sir? Hitokiri Battousai?" _

"_Himura Kenshin. Or Kenshin Himura, whichever way you choose to look at it."_

_Therefore, – dyed black hair his only concession to discretion – Kenshin Himura he became; a Japanese American opportunist, a profiteer, a smuggler, and a river rat. Cold-blooded, pragmatic and ruthless, he kept his word when it suited him, killed without qualms when it didn't, and was absolutely loyal to only two things in his life – _

_Money and Major Katsura. _

* * *

Sometime during the five years he worked for Katsura, he'd lost himself within Kenshin Himura. It was so much easier to play the conscienceless opportunist when he had a list of targets to eliminate, and so he had deliberately put away his gentler, more compassionate, more idealistic side. Had he been playing Kenshin in '75, he would have sacrificed young Genzai so that he and Johnny – unhurt, with more chance of survival – could live.

Perhaps that was why he'd given him Katsura's lighter. An ironic gesture; he'd told Genzai that it was a reminder of what they were all fighting for.

"What do you want?" he asked harshly. More harshly than he'd intended, actually, it had been a long time since he'd talked to a woman.

"I want you to help me," the girl said. Genzai's niece. Young, pretty, and very impressionable – and very brave, to come in here to find him.

"Usually it's the one who's been saved who owes the debt," he said, ironic.

"I'm not… I don't… It's not a debt, Mr. Hamill," she said awkwardly. "It's just that I don't know anyone else who could possibly help me. They said –"

Ah. Now they were making progress…

"They?"

"The yakuza. They have my brother, Yahiko. They say that if I want him back, I have to win him back. In the arena."

"Sounds like a bad martial arts movie." But he smiled, mirthless. "Enishi always did watch too much Bruce Lee."

She gaped at him. "You know Yukishiro Enishi? The yakuza leader?"

"Yes. We had a falling out some time ago. He'd love to kill me – in fact, that's probably why he kidnapped your brother, Miss Kamiya. He knew of my connection to your uncle."

"He knew I'd come to you? That's the most…" she scowled fiercely, gripped her purse with both white-knuckled fists. "That bastard!" He watched, intrigued, as she all but stamped her foot with rage. "I hope you kill him! I hope you disembowel him clumsily and dance on his guts!"

He blinked.

"Unfortunately, Miss Kamiya, there is one problem. The yakuza arena fights are always to the death, and I have not used my sword to kill for years."

* * *

A/N - I would appreciate your feedback on this experimental piece. Thanks for reading.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N – Once again, I have taken liberties with the canon timeline – I have made Enishi much closer in age to Tomoe, and turned Tomoe into more of a seductress.

Disclaimer – I don't own Ruroken. Don't sue.

* * *

Chapter 2

* * *

Dark eyes watched, coldly, calculatingly, as the girl entered the club. She drew attention immediately, with her modest clothes and her purse clutched to her chest like a lifeline, everything about her out of place in this sleazy, run down strip club. The watcher saw the man in the corner note her presence immediately – note it, and dismiss it, until it became clear that she was heading straight for him.

Then… the man who had once been the most dangerous killer on the Mekong turned his head, a quick, almost unseen glance; before the watcher could duck, he could feel himself speared by hard, amber eyes. Panicked, he broke eye contact, but it was too late – he knew that the other had seen him. Not just noted his presence, as he was no doubt aware of every single patron in the club, but also _seen _him.

It _was _him, the renegade American.

He knew that they were watching him...

* * *

1973

"_Tomoe!" Yukishiro Enishi whispered, his face white and set. "Nee-chan…" _

_The unfortunate messenger shifted uneasily, and the powerful yakuza leader whirled on him, grabbing him by his collar and all but lifting him off the ground. "Where is he?" he snarled dangerously. "Where is that murdering bastard Himura?"_

_His face gaping, slowly going purple, the messenger opened his mouth and tried to speak. "Y-Yukishiro-sama," he managed, before Enishi threw him down in disgust. "He has disappeared," he said, his voice heaving and shaking. "No one has seen him since…" _

"_Find him!" Enishi snarled. "I don't care how long it takes, I want that bastard found!"_

* * *

It had taken them almost eight years to track him down, but two years ago, a yakuza informant had seen a _red haired_ man with a cross-shaped scar on his cheek in Bangkok. The word had gone quickly back to Yukishiro-sama, who had ordered a full investigation. The results, though much obscured by the passage of time, secrecy, and the inevitable blurring of fact and fiction in the Asian underworld, had led to an elaborate plan of punishment and revenge beginning here and now, with this meeting.

* * *

"_Unfortunately, Miss Kamiya, there is one problem. The yakuza arena fights are always to the death, and I have not used my sword to kill for years."_

"What…" she stopped, swallowed, "what exactly did you mean, 'use your sword to kill'?"

His eyes were wry as they met hers. "How much did your uncle tell you about me?"

"N-not much," she stammered. "He said that you were a spook or an assassin, once. That you walked away, after the end, and never went home. He said that if I showed you the lighter, you'd understand who it was from, and give me what help you could. He didn't tell me that you knew their leader, and he didn't say _anything _about swords."

"No, I don't suppose he did." She saw him look down, at the cigarette lighter that had stirred so many memories. "The swords were the finishing touch…"

_

* * *

_

_Kenshin Himura rose to the top of the food chain on the river through sheer ruthlessness. His youth and deceptive appearance worked both for and against him – it was a great aid during assassinations, when no one expected a young, fresh faced youth to be the killer, but it also greatly hindered his more public role in the underworld. At first, they refused to take him seriously – _

_That was when the swords came into play. Kenshin used the conventional weapons of assassination for his covert work – guns, knives, garrotes, explosives, even fatal overdoses – but in his role on the river, something more dramatic was needed if he were ever to get near to the big bosses, the major arms and drug dealers who were doing such damage to the American effort behind the scenes. He needed to establish a reputation for extreme ruthlessness, and the best way to do that was through some type of extraordinary cruelty – there were pirates on the river who cut off men's feet and hung them from their boats, and others who wore with great pride a necklace made of their enemies' foreskins. _

_Unwilling to go to such lengths, Kenshin had only one affectation he could use – his lethal skill with swords, put to dramatic use against his enemies. Soon he became a familiar figure, a young man with cruel, cold eyes walking with lethal grace, a set of Japanese swords at his side. It was said – rumour deliberately spread by a delighted Katsura – that he had killed a hundred men, and over time the rumours mutated and grew wilder and wilder. They said he was the reincarnation of the Japanese demon, Battousai. They said he had once swum up to a boat with his sword in his teeth, boarded secretly, and slaughtered everyone on board; he had once cut off a man's hands and feet after killing his entire family in front of him; he had once killed an entire troop of ninja sent after him by a powerful drug lord. _

_That last one, at least, was true – after he had persuaded the last ninja to talk, he had gone after the drug lord, destroying his entire network in the process. In two short years, Kenshin Himura and his swords – with the aid of a handpicked gang of ruffians kindly donated by Katsura – had disposed of a great number of informants, smugglers, pirates, drug lords, and criminals, and he had built himself a terrifying reputation. _

_Only Katsura knew how many more he killed on his own, in secret…_

* * *

"Will you help me?" she asked, not understanding his mood. The frozen calm she had seen at first impression had given way to a wry, rueful humour, but she knew that he was troubled by her request.

He smiled. Kaoru drew in her breath – when he smiled, he was beautiful. It wasn't the first thing you noticed about him, nor even the third or fourth, because his physical presence was so striking. "You know that I will, Miss Kamiya. Else you would not have flown all this way to meet me."

"But…why?"

For the first time, he avoided her eyes. "Your uncle. He helped me work some things out…" He shrugged, turned his head to his right – and the rueful, self-deprecating humour vanished, replaced by watchfulness once again.

She followed his gaze; saw nothing but an old drunk, gazing blearily at the twisting pole dancers, hands working busily under the table.

"Who is he?"

"I don't know." As he spoke his right hand, which had been playing with the lighter, slipped unobtrusively below the table. Kaoru, daughter of a policeman, niece of an old soldier, knew what that gesture meant. Moving slowly, trying to remain calm, she moved out of the way of his gun.

"Is he yakuza?" She tried to make her body language project calm and unconcern – just a man and a woman talking in a dingy, run-down bar. Unfortunately, she rather thought it was too late to deflect attention from themselves.

"Most probably." His eyes, sharp and cold, were fixed on the old man's hands, which were not, as Kaoru had first thought, working in his lap. "Come on."

Slowly, carefully, he stood up, gripping her arm with his left hand, his right hand buried in his jacket pocket, hiding the gun. They walked to the entrance of the bar, his body crowding and shielding hers, his eyes darting over every patron, every dancer, and every server.

They passed the old drunk, who ignored them, and then exited into the light of day, leaving behind smoke and shadow for bright, blinding sunlight and a shock of humid heat. Kaoru blinked, blinded by the change in light, but her companion dragged her along the pavement with him, moving as quickly as he could to put distance between them and their watcher.

Finally, they came to a stop in a deserted alley.

"Why didn't he try to follow us?" she asked, panting. "Are there other watchers?"

"Yes. They've been watching me for some time."

"Oh," she said, subdued. "So that's how you knew the connection with Yahiko's kidnapping…"

He smiled at her again, that same enchanting, rueful smile. "It doesn't take much logic to connect constant surveillance and the sudden appearance of a damsel in distress. As I said, Enishi wants me dead."

"What did you do to him?"

There was a slight pause as his smile faded, turned distinctly bitter. "I murdered his sister."

_

* * *

_

_Tomoe._

_White, white skin and fathomless black eyes, the only hint of heat the sensual grace of her walk and the intoxicating scent of white plum…_

_At 22, Kenshin had not been ready for her. A black magic woman, she'd fascinated him, ensnared him, and almost seduced him into her brother's syndicate – he'd almost turned on Katsura, when the Major had tried to awaken him to what was happening._

_He'd have done anything for her, killed anyone she asked him to – at night, when they were tangled up in each other, her long hair wrapped around them both and her long, red nails scraping over his chest… _

_When the betrayal came, as he'd sensed it coming, ignoring his screaming instincts, it had been devastating. _

* * *

Ah. He had managed to horrify the girl. Her blue, expressive eyes – so open, so innocent – were shocked; clearly, she had no idea what to say. The man she had turned to, the hero who had saved her uncle, had murdered a woman in cold blood. He wondered if the news would scare her away, or whether she was desperate enough to stay with him despite his less than pristine past.

Kenjiro had dreamed of those eyes – ever since he'd first seen them, they'd haunted him, the memory of her sheer joy sustaining him through the long, long years.

A child, no more than twelve or thirteen, smiling and laughing at the camera – a picture of long-forgotten innocence. _My niece, _Genzai had said._ My Kaoru..._

* * *

A/N – Thanks so much for your response to the first chapter! Virtual cookies and pats on the back to all my wonderful reviewers.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N – Here we go with chapter 3. Have been watching many (too many) Hong Kong martial arts movies and I'm in a strange mood –

Disclaimer – I don't own Ruroken. Don't sue.

**

* * *

**

**Chapter 3**

* * *

Genzai's precious Kaoru had a stubborn streak, Kenjiro was fast discovering, and it manifested at the very worst moments. They couldn't afford to stand here, arguing about this –

"You cannot go back to your hotel room, Miss Kamiya," he argued, "They will be watching for your return."

She began to speak, to argue, as she had been doing for the last two minutes, but stopped – finally, she heard what he had noticed long before: the scrape of footsteps on stone, of metal tapped slowly, tauntingly against the alley walls.

He stood with his back to them, sheltering the girl. But he was aware of their every movement – the heavily muscled strong man circling to his right, betraying his position with his harsh breathing; the small, silent knife-man whose rustling clothes gave away his movement to the left; and the leader, the swordsman, tapping the alley walls, trying to disorientate him.

"Oh, there's no need to leave on our account," one of them called out, taunting, in heavily accented English. "We can finish our business right here and now."

Kaoru looked up at him, her eyes wide. He smiled crookedly, hoping that it looked reassuring – and then he turned, slowly revealing himself – his red hair, his amber eyes, and his cross-shaped scar…

The small, silent man sneered. "Himura Kenshin," he said in Japanese. "A renegade, honourless assassin. How much did the Americans pay you to betray your teachings?"

Kenjiro's eyes flashed for a moment, before he regained control and smiled. "How much is Enishi paying you to take me on?" he taunted in turn, falling automatically into a balanced fighting stance, slowly circling, stalking, always aware of his opponents' movements. "Is it enough to die for?"

"You're bluffing," the leader said abruptly, and Kenjiro's eyes flew to his. "You're unarmed, cornered, and you have to keep the girl at your back. I, Sakamoto Genji, will take your head and collect Yukishiro-sama's reward –"

To his left, the small man rushed him, knife extended to stab. Kenjiro's arm swept out, grabbed the man's wrist, and _twisted_; the man screamed, dropped the knife, and Kenjiro smashed his fist into his face. He dropped, groaning, clutching his shattered wrist and teeth. Kenjiro turned back to Sakamoto Genji in time to sweep Kaoru further behind him, shifting his feet and eluding the sword that would have cut him in two.

They stared at each other a while longer, then, eyes locking, a test of resolve and will. Kenjiro shifted his stance, sinking a little lower; Sakamoto gripped his sword, holding it high, parallel to his cheek.

"Your stance is flawed," Sakamoto said, stepping closer. "Your kung fu is weak."

Kenjiro blinked, thought he heard a stifled giggle from the girl behind him. "Do I look like Bruce Lee?" he countered.

"Well…" the strong man began, his first contribution to the conversation.

"Shut up!" Sakamoto shouted, his eyes narrowing. Things were not unfolding as he had planned; his victim was not cowering in fright, or falling to the ground pleading for Yukishiro-sama's mercy.

But in that moment of distraction, Kenjiro moved. He charged forward, quickly getting inside Sakamoto's range, and, grabbing his wrists in a sudden, iron grip, wrested the sword from him –

Pivoted, turned, brought the sword down in a powerful, implacable sweep, and did not flinch at the warm spray of blood as Sakamoto's body collapsed, his head rolling to a stop by the wall of the alley.

He looked up, straight into Kaoru's wide, shocked blue eyes, feeling the all-too-familiar sensation of blood dripping down his face. Her eyes slid past him, widened, and he pivoted again to meet the strong man's lumbering rush. At the moment of intersection, he sidestepped, lifted his sword and struck, the classic downwards strike that all kendo students learned from the very, very beginning.

There was a choked, bubbling scream, and the huge, hard muscles went lax, that immensely strong, finely honed body no more than a ruptured, bleeding sack now. The strong man stumbled to his knees, wavered, and collapsed, dead.

Casually, Kenjiro flicked the blood off the blade, and began to turn; he heard the small, silent man scramble to his feet, panicking, and sprint off. His instincts, honed over too much killing and too many deaths, screamed at him to follow him, run him down, and finish him off, but Kaoru put a hand on his arm, staying him.

"He'll only alert the others," he told her. "They'll all come after us now."

"It doesn't matter," she answered, voice shaking a little. "He was no threat to you, and they would have come after us anyway."

Her face was pale, but her eyes were steady, if shadowed with the terrible knowledge of just how suddenly death could strike. He did not say, as he had been thinking, that ten years ago he would have killed the man, rendered harmless or not –

Let her cherish her illusions while she could. There would be precious few left by the time this ridiculous game was played out…

"Let's go," he said, stepping delicately around the two bloody corpses, bending down to retrieve the sheath for his borrowed sword, and taking a moment to wipe and sheath the blade, treating it with the respect it deserved.

As they prepared to emerge back onto the main street, Kaoru stopped him. "Wait." He turned to her in surprise, but she only reached up, dabbing at his face with a handkerchief, wiping the crimson, drying blood from his skin.

* * *

Her handkerchief was ruined. It was the only thing she could seem to focus on; her thoughts were skittering randomly between the memory of the two men he had killed with such shocking speed and brutality, the feel of his tense, vibrating strength under her hand, and the memory of his cool, amused voice as he spoke.

_Do I look like Bruce Lee?_

She had never before seen such skill with a Japanese sword. Kaoru had studied kendo for nearly ten years, but had somehow never before understood that swords _were,_ in fact, nothing more than killing weapons. In her mind, skill with a blade had meant grace, balance, art – but never the warm iron tang of blood, or the choked, terrifying gurgle of a man's last dying breath.

"Mr. Hamill?" she asked, walking down the street with him, trying to pretend that they were another pair of holidaying tourists.

"Please," he said dryly, "call me Ken. I think we've gone beyond the point of formality."

"Where did you learn to use a sword like that?"

He was silent. Kaoru cursed herself for prying, and determined that from now on, she would restrain her damnable curiosity –

"My Japanese grandfather," he answered finally. "The Hiten Mitsurugi sword style was passed down from father to son for hundreds of years in our family, but my uncles all died in the war. Because my mother was the eldest daughter, and I her only son, he determined that I was to be the inheritor…"

She remembered the swordsman's derogatory words in the alley.

_How much did the Americans pay you to betray your teachings? _

"I'm sorry," she said quietly, giving his left arm a tiny, sympathetic squeeze. He looked down at her, eyes widened in surprise, and then he smiled at her – a genuinely warm, rather endearingly awkward smile, and covered her hand with his own.

_

* * *

_

_1972_

"_Kenjiro!" his mother said, opening the door to him and smiling, holding her arms out wide to embrace him. Almost desperately, he hugged her, breathing in her familiar scent – this was what he had been fighting for, all these long years. _

"_How is he, Okaa-san?" he asked, deeply concerned. His grandfather had been admitted to hospital in Kyoto with terminal lung cancer, and Kenjiro had begged Katsura for three weeks leave. _

_His mother said nothing, turning and going into the house; disquieted, Kenjiro followed, removing his shoes and closing the door behind him. _

"_He is dying, Ken," she said, her face impassive. Only the pain in her eyes gave any clue to her emotional state – his grandfather's fierce pride and self-control, drummed into all his children. He had never managed to succeed with Kenjiro, though…_

_Ken put out a hand, staggered. "Dying? Why didn't you tell me before this?"_

"_He told me not to," she said, her voice gentle, as always; no, his mother's voice was always cool and gentle, never raised, never angry, never anything but calm. "You know how stubborn he is. He's never forgiven you for using the Hiten Mitsurugi for the army."_

_This was an old, old argument. When Kenjiro had first told his grandfather of his role in the shadow war, the old man had been furious – Kenjiro, just as furious with what he saw as the old man's failure to understand, had walked out, his grandfather's words of disownment ringing in his ears._

* * *

The memory of his grandfather's death was still painful even now, more than ten years later. He'd loved the haughty, stubborn old man like a second father, had soaked up his teachings and his philosophy and worked at his kenjutsu until his palms bled to gain his approval. But in the end, he had betrayed him, seduced by promises of a quick, easy solution to ills that would never be fixed…

The warm press of Kaoru's hand on his arm drew him back, and he grinned down at her like a fool, just glad that she was here, and that she cared.

Deliberately, he banished the past, concentrating instead on the problem of where, exactly, they would go to ground for the night. He had been in Bangkok for eight years, and he knew it fairly well – but not nearly as well as the criminal syndicates Enishi would call on did. He kept to himself, lived a solitary, introspective life, and so he had no real friends –

But there were others he could turn to for help.

He was not the only ex-pat soldier in Bangkok. There were a number of other veterans who had decided to stay, after the end; either because they had nothing left for them at home, or because they had been home and found that they no longer fit in. He didn't associate with them, didn't gather at their bars or their nightspots, but they were bound together by shared experience: they had all gone through a particular kind of hell on earth, and had survived – if barely – to emerge in a world that had moved on without them.

And so they stuck together, as they had done in the jungle.

* * *

The rapping continued, relentlessly, thundering throughout the small, shabby one-room apartment. The lean, lanky figure sprawled face down across the bed twitched, groaned, and then rolled over, burying his head further into the sheets.

"Sano!" a voice called, rapping even harder on the door. "Wake up! Sano!"

In the depths of Sano's hung-over, sleep-hazed mind, it seemed as though he recognized that voice, as if he should remember it –

_A firm hand on his shoulder, urging him up, away, as he stared shocked at the remains of his patrol…_

_A lethal whirlwind, protecting him, pushing him down as the gunfire came from all around, and somehow they managed to escape, the older man dragging him all the way…_

_A hip flask and an enameled-eagle Zippo, ready to listen to a young, terrified kid unwillingly drafted into a war he didn't want, fighting for reasons he didn't understand…_

_A concerned voice calling, always calling, disturbing his wonderful dreams, slapping his face and trying to tear him away from the glorious haze…_

"Sano!"

"All right, all right," he growled, "Jesus, I'm coming." Stretching, he rubbed at his bleary eyes and ambled, clad in nothing but a pair of stained Y-fronts, to the front door and pulled it open.

He recognized him immediately, though it had been five years since he'd last seen him, walking away as, blind drunk and dangerously high, Sano hurled a torrent of filthy abuse at his back. "Ken," he said quietly.

"Sano," the other man replied, shifting to reveal the girl. She was young and pretty, Sano saw, distracted, but there were _bloodstains_ on her hands, and the smell of fresh blood in the air, surrounding Ken. He looked closer and saw the way that Ken was standing, left foot forward deliberately, hiding something against his right side.

"You smell of blood," he said deliberately, almost accusingly.

Ken bowed his head, lifting his right hand, extending a _sword – _a goddamned sword! –

"We need your help. Will you let us in?"

Sano stood in the doorway, looking into those familiar golden eyes, remembering the ever-present rumours of his true role in the war, dark whispers of assassination, of conspiracies, and of drug smuggling, and the hard, unmistakable evidence of the blood-drenched sword.

And then he remembered the steadfast understanding, offered freely to a kid on the edge of despair, the friendship that had kept him coming back again and again, trying to help him despite his abuse and contempt, until, in the end, Sano himself had driven him away…

"Come in," he said abruptly, "and tell me what the hell's going on. Anything you want, you know I'll help you."

Ken, leading the girl into his wreck of a living room, turned his head and smiled sadly, sweetly. "Thank you, Sano."

* * *

A/N – Please tell me what you think. Thanks for reading.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N – Thanks to all my reviewers. Apologies in advance to any Enishi fans, but he is going to be a villain in this story.

Disclaimer – I don't own Ruroken. Don't sue.

* * *

**CHAPTER 4**

* * *

Sano led the way into what passed for his living room. Kenjiro looked about, his expression deliberately neutral as he noted the piles of unwashed laundry, of used plates and other, less easily identified mess.

"Sorry about the mess," Sano said with breezy, casual confidence. "It's been a while since I've had the chance to clean…"

"Yes," Kaoru said faintly. "I can see."

Unperturbed, Sano shoved at a pile of old porno mags, revealing a dingy brown lounge. "Right," he said with a generous, expansive gesture, "sit down, and tell me everything. I'm assuming you're in trouble."

They perched gingerly on the edge of the lounge seat. Kaoru launched into her explanation, explaining about her kidnapped brother, Enishi Yukishiro, and her uncle's connection to Kenjiro. Ken had always wondered just how much Sano knew of his secret role in the war – the slightly puzzled look in the younger man's eyes told him that he had always suspected something was amiss, but had never been able to put all the pieces together. And then Kaoru finished up with her trip to Thailand, the watcher in the strip club, and the three men who had ambushed them in the street.

"You killed two of them," Sano said neutrally. "With that sword."

"Yes," Kenjiro answered.

Sano shook his head. "I always knew there was something you weren't telling me, Ken, but I never suspected…" he trailed off. "A _sword?"_

Kenjiro sighed, and then began his own, slightly edited tale.

Sano listened, open mouthed, as the redhead spoke. His voice and manner as gentle as they had always been, Ken recounted stories of government assassins and cold-blooded murder with a matter-of-factness that made Sano's blood run cold.

"You're saying," he said, still not believing, "that you were one of Katsura's men?"

Major Katsura was a well-known name among those who'd had to go into the more dangerous situations across the river. He had a reputation for clearing the way for the conventionals who'd come after him, but there had been whispers that his methods weren't always…savoury.

Ken smiled sadly. "I was among the first of Katsura's men," he admitted, "and his most effective. But that's beside the point," he said briskly, cutting off Sano's awkward questions. "The problem here lies with Yukishiro."

"The biggest, baddest yakuza boss in Japan," Sano said. "You do know how to pick your enemies, girl," he said as an aside to Kaoru, who bridled at the mode of address. Sano only grinned.

Ken put a warning hand on the girl's arm, which calmed her down, but also made her blush slightly.

"Enishi's grudge is against _me_, Sano. There was a – a misunderstanding, years ago. I'm afraid Miss Kamiya was dragged into it."

"Are there any other big bad bosses out there, gunning for you? You must have made a hell of a lot of enemies."

"Sano –" for a moment, Ken's voice tightened and his eyes narrowed, but then he smiled, somewhat reluctantly, and lowered his head. "If there are, they would have every right. I killed many, many people in the name of an ultimately empty promise."

"Keh." Sano had never thought much of official propaganda. "How old were you?"

Ken blinked. "I volunteered when I was eighteen. Why?"

"Yeah," Sano said impatiently, "but how old were you when Katsura got hold of you?"

"Just past nineteen, I think –"

"Bastard." Indignant, angry on Ken's behalf, Sano clenched his fists and ground his teeth. "Bloodthirsty, murdering bastard."

Startled, Ken's eyes opened very wide, and for the first time Sano could remember, he looked shocked. "Sano!"

"No, no, not you, fool. Katsura. Christ! You were just a kid."

"No older than you were, Sano. And I volunteered…"

Sano shook his head. "It's not the same."

Ken's clear, compassionate eyes searched him, filled with gentle, somewhat sad laughter, just as Sano always remembered them. It was hard, very, very hard to imagine his gentle mentor/companion/friend as a cold-blooded assassin –

But that was the point, wasn't it? No one would believe it of the slight, innocent looking kid he must have been – Christ, five years of murder on demand, all on the word of a ruthless zealot like Katsura, who had truly believed in what he'd been doing, and so had been prepared to go to any lengths to achieve success.

"He was not a saint, Sano, but nor was he a monster. He was a man, trying to do the best he can, in accordance with his own beliefs."

Faced with the gentle implacability of Ken's slight smile, Sano gave in.

"So, what are you going to do, Ken? You said Yukishiro likes to stage illegal fights – obviously, he wants you as his prize attraction. From what you told me, there are people who'd pay big money to see you fighting for your life."

Ken nodded.

"Then why did he send those goons after you? You'd think he wanted you alive and well."

"He wanted to test me, to see if I'm still as good as I was, during the war – if I hadn't been able to defeat them, then all his dreams of a tournament would be useless."

"That's terrible!" Kaoru exclaimed. "To throw away his own men so easily."

Sano grinned toothily. "That's good business, girl. No use talking up a tournament, drawing in all the high rollers, and then finding out your star draw is only a shadow of what he once was. –Are you, Ken? As good as you were, ten years ago?"

Ken only smiled. "Are any of us? Ten years ago, it was easy to push my body beyond its natural limits – but now?" He shrugged. "I'm thirty-three years old, Sano."

_

* * *

_

_1973_

_Shocked, numbed, Ken sat on the edge of a cheap, filthy bed, his long, unbound hair falling about his bruised, bloody face like a false black veil. Sometimes he forgot that it was a disguise, that his hair was truly red, blood red, like blood on the snow… Suddenly desperate, he fumbled for the bedside phone, almost spilling it in his haste. Fingers shaking, he dialed Katsura's number – _

"_Yes?" The Major's voice was cool and calm, as always, even at three in the morning. _

"_Major Katsura. It's Ken –"_

"_What are you doing, calling here?" _

_Ken had to pause, to take deep, calming breaths – Katsura, uncannily perceptive, must have heard the panic. "Take a moment. Breathe – now tell me what's wrong."_

"_Attack. Ikeda-ya cafe. Breakfast, this morning." Ken's fist gripped the receiver tightly, his knuckles white from the tension and strain. _

_There was a moment of brief silence. "Are you sure?"_

"_Yes. General Trang told me himself – before he tried to put a bullet in my head." Closing his eyes, he relived, over and over again, the look of terrible triumph on the General's face as Yukishiro stripped him of his cover, and the terrible moment when Tomoe stepped out from behind her brother, her eyes dark, begging him to forgive her…_

"_I killed Trang, but Yukishiro is still alive – he'll stop at nothing to carry out the attack, now. It's a matter of pride. And," he took a deep breath, "Tomoe is dead. She's here, with me – but I can't stay here, I have to…" _

_His voice trailed off, and his hands started to shake._

"_Ken. Listen to me. Where are you?"_

"_I don't know. A small pay-per-hour in the red-light district. I don't… I can't…" _

"_Ken. Ken! Tell me where you are. I'll send someone over to take care of all the necessary arrangements – come back in, and we'll plan our defense together."_

_Ken calmed down long enough to reel off the address, and put the phone down with exaggerated care and precision. Slowly, he stood up, stripped out of his bloody, ripped shirt, and finally turned to face the horrible truth –_

_Tomoe was dead. She'd betrayed him, and then she'd thrown herself in front of the man who would have killed him, if Ken (eyes almost swollen shut, only one thought running through his mind – bomb, Ikeda-ya, warn, protect, survive!) hadn't swung his sword with the last of his mad blinded strength, and cut through her and the killer both._

_He didn't remember the rest of the carnage, but when he could think again, he was alone in the room, surrounded by bloody, ripped up bodies. He'd picked up Tomoe's limp, blood-soaked body and staggered outside, somehow stealing a car and making his way here, to a phone, where he could contact Major Katsura. _

_It was all for nothing, anyway. The next day, four bombs went off at the Ikeda-ya, and Katsura, hunting for the bombers, was struck and killed by flying shrapnel…_

* * *

"Yukishiro-sama!" A small man rushed into the room, clutching his wrist protectively to his chest. "Yukishiro-sama, please forgive me!" He threw himself on the ground before Enishi's seat.

Enishi looked at him blankly.

"We went after the assassin, hoping to collect your bounty on his head. But he killed Sakamoto and Matsuda so easily…" he trailed off, swallowed. "I returned here to warn you that he knows we came from you."

The assassin.

Himura Kenshin.

Enishi's mouth twisted, his eyes narrowing dangerously. "You presumed to use my name?" he asked, very softly.

The man cowering at his feet flinched.

"You informed him of my attentions, like a gift? You _fool!_" he snarled angrily, smashing his foot into the man's ribs. The unfortunate fool collapsed, whimpering, and Enishi made a point of ranting and raving for a little longer. But when he sent the man off, bruised, battered, and thoroughly terrified, he allowed himself a very small smile.

Sixteen men, Himura Kenshin had slain on that last night in his escape from General Trang, before he murdered Tomoe. Enishi had seen it all, had watched the incredible, uncontrolled violence with shocked, fascinated awe: Himura had been a master killer at his absolute peak, driven beyond any thoughts of rationality, and Enishi had never seen anything else that could ever rival it for its raw, visceral thrill.

Ten years, it seemed, had not diminished his skill.

For Tomoe, his beloved, murdered elder sister, Enishi would make sure the bastard paid. He would take Tomoe's blood price out of Himura's hide…

* * *

A/N – This chapter was short but necessary. I've taken some liberties with the true facts of the Ikeda-ya, but I hope you'll forgive me. Next chapter – Enishi formally invites Kaoru to his tournament to win her brother back.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N – Saw Munich the other day. It kick-started the flashback between Ken and Katsura. And as for the interchange about the difficulties and practicalities of assassinations, well, I had a Tarantino night.

v.2.0 - fixed a small formatting glitch.

Disclaimer – I don't own Ruroken. Don't sue.

* * *

**Chapter 5**

* * *

"Tell me what you know about Enishi," Ken said the next morning, as they sat out on the tiny balcony. Sano was sitting on the railing itself, his back to the five-storey drop below. The younger man had always liked to take unnecessary risks, Ken remembered – still the cocky, macho, reckless kid he'd met nine years ago in a nightclub brawl in Bangkok.

"Yukishiro?" Sano shrugged. "Not much more than is common knowledge. If you want details – you'd know more than I, Ken; you're the one who killed his sister."

Ken winced. "I didn't mean to."

"Yeah, I know." There was a wealth of lazy confidence in his voice. "You're not the type. You're a romantic –"

_

* * *

_

_Towards the end, when Ken began to have serious doubts about the validity of his actions, he went to see Major Katsura. Together, they went out into the crowded city, forcing their way through the streets, until they came to a small, roadside café. A relic of the French colonial days, it was light, airy and incongruously European, here in this teeming Asian city. _

"_This must be serious, Ken, for you to insist on a personal meeting." Ignoring his coffee, the Major pulled out a cigarette and lit it, narrowing his eyes in pleasure as he inhaled. _

"_It is serious, sir," he agreed. More for something to do than for any real desire for it, he took a sip of the strong, black coffee. "It's just… I don't believe in what we're doing, Major." _

"_Oh?"_

"_Last year, when I tracked Pham to New York, I saw the protest rallies, felt the mood on the streets –"_

_Katsura snorted. "Draft-dodgers. Hippies."_

"_With respect, Major," he said stiffly, setting the cup down with a snap, "they ask valid questions. I know you don't–" _

"_You're a romantic, Ken. You need to believe that what you're doing is right, is justified, is in the pursuit of a grand purpose – tell me, could you continue on, knowing that it was in a worthless cause?"_

_Ken said nothing. _

"_Then don't ask questions. You won't like the answers."_

* * *

"– and you believe all that crap about women and children and non-combatants. I bet you cried your eyes out over her, even though she was a treacherous bitch."

Ken sprang to his feet, hand automatically gripping the sword hilt. Sano yelped, swore, and almost fell off the balcony railing. Still, he grinned cockily. "There," he said, exuding satisfaction, "you see? You're still willing to fight for her."

With a frigid glare, Ken released the sword and sat back down. "You play dangerous games, Sano," he said quietly.

"Not really. I know you, Ken. You won't kill me."

"That's what Tomoe believed, too. Even up to the end, just before I ran her through –" He breathed in sharply, run a frustrated hand through his hair.

"And the girl inside?"

Ken thought of the laughing, innocent girl in Genzai's photo. He remembered the way she'd been so shocked in the alley, the way her eyes had widened at the sudden violent death – and how she had reached out to comfort him anyway. He remembered her trust in him, innocently, willingly offered – so different from Tomoe's wary, cynical caution.

"No," he said finally. "Not her. Never her."

* * *

Wandering out of the tiny, cramped bathroom, Kaoru saw both her self-appointed protectors sitting out on the balcony. Watching them interact, she wondered what they were talking about with such serious faces. At first sight, she hadn't thought their slovenly host could have anything serious to say, but it was evident that there was more to him than his appearance would suggest. He had made it clear that he would not be left out of this venture, and part of her was secretly grateful for it.

The light was strong and bright, and she moved unseen in the darkened house, creeping up beside the balcony door so that she could eavesdrop without being seen.

"_And the girl inside?"_

"_No. Not her. Never her."_

"What are you planning?" she asked suspiciously, moving out onto the balcony before she could stop herself. "You're not planning on leaving me behind, are you?"

Sano swore in surprise, but Ken only turned around, smiling – a particularly false smile, she thought with a flash of insight. "Miss Kamiya. Good morning."

She scowled at him.

Sano cleared his throat. "We hadn't actually got round to the planning part yet. We're still trying to gather Intel on Yukishiro. I was thinking of going 'round the bars and clubs tonight, see what we can find out."

"Tonight?" she repeated in some dismay. "But that's…"

"We can't let him dictate the pace, Miss Kamiya," Ken said quietly. "And we need the extra time to prepare ourselves."

Sano grinned evilly, rubbing his hands together. "I know a man who knows someone –"

Ken sighed. "Sano, I've told you – we don't need that much. We're not preparing for an invasion. We need to play it subtle."

"This from the man who once sent ten severed heads in lacquered boxes to Old Man Nguyen?"

Kaoru gasped. Ken winced. "It was only one head, in a hessian sack." He turned to Kaoru. "I burned the warehouse down around the other bodies. But the Old Man demanded proof of death – what else could I do?"

"Take a photo?" Sano suggested mildly.

"Well, I didn't –"

"Only one head?" Kaoru screeched, cutting into Ken's reply. "And you think that makes it any better?"

Ken stared at her, and then bowed his head, his long fringe falling forward and concealing his eyes. All pretence of playful banter evaporated, and Kaoru wondered if she'd made a terrible mistake. "My apologies, Miss Kamiya," he said very formally, still not meeting her eyes. "I should have remembered that you are not used to such violence."

It was Kaoru's turn to wince. She remembered her uncle's occasional fey moods, his grim, gallows humour, and the frustration and alienation he'd felt, trying to resume 'normal' life once more, after his life had been so fundamentally changed. These two men were soldiers, just as her uncle had been – only they had not been able to return home.

"No," she said quietly. "No, I'm sorry. I know you're doing all you can to help me, and I'm grateful for it. But sometimes…it's hard."

"Huh," Sano said magnanimously. "Don't worry. My old captain always said that women were too delicate for such matters…"

Kaoru gasped and balled up her fist, preparing to show the chauvinist pig just how delicate she was. Ken stood up quickly, laughing, trying to calm her down, and Sano jumped down from the railing, pretending to be alarmed at her fierceness.

The awkward moment passed in laughter and mock indignation.

* * *

They stayed inside, that day. It could have been interminable; Sano was notoriously restless, Kaoru was always, in the back of her mind, worried about her brother, and he himself had an unfortunate tendency to brood. However, he found himself enjoying the spectacle of Kaoru, determined, embarking on a major clean-up mission as Sano fluttered around her, panicking and objecting desperately. The look on his face as Kaoru piled up all his old Playboys and threatened to burn them had been priceless – as was her face as she held up (between two very cautious fingers) a scrap of red lace that looked suspiciously like a g-string.

Wisely, he kept out of it himself, retreating to the balcony where he knelt down and examined his new sword. Unsheathing it with all the respect it deserved, he held it up to the light, noting the rippling effect that came of constantly folding and refolding the steel – it was a good blade, a solid, reliable blade, if not a masterpiece from one of the great smiths. It had served him well, when he'd not been prepared for such a sudden journey into his old life –

Slowly, deliberately, he slid it back into its sheath. The familiar 'click' when it snapped home was like a final door closing, an irrevocable reminder of the man he had once been, and the role he had never truly shed.

* * *

Thumping, rhythmic techno music blasted out at deafening volumes, while a sea of writhing, tossing figures crowded the dance floor. The quick contrast of the rapid changes in light was bewildering to the eye, and Ken tensed, his assassin's instinct seeing threats in every shifting shadow. He was not prone to claustrophobia, but the shifting light, the tight-pressed crowd, and the deafening noise all disconcerted him –

Then, even over the music, he heard the clear, unmistakable sound of the safety on a semi-automatic, sending a cold chill down his spine.

"Hello, Bruce Lee," a familiar, accented voice spoke in his ear.

* * *

Enishi sprawled on a red velvet couch, two giggling girls cooing and fussing on either side of him. He paid them no heed, all his focus fixed on the great glass window, through which he could see a group of his henchmen surrounding three captives, their hands tied, guns pressed to their backs – and one small, redheaded man, so deceptively delicate.

Here, at long last, was the man he'd only glimpsed, so many years ago.

The sound of muffled thumping, kicking and shouting distracted him. He stood up, shaking off the clinging, pouting women, and walked over behind a screen, where a small boy was tied to a chair, glaring at him with black, defiant eyes. He smiled. "Well, Yahiko-chan, it looks like your sister has come to rescue you." the boy's chair, turning it around so that he could see his sister's plight.

The boy redoubled his shouting and thumping, trying to gain their attention.

"Don't worry, boy, she'll be here soon enough. And then –" he paused, as Himura looked up, and their eyes met – "and then we'll see which is worth more, your life or his principles."

There was a tentative rap on the door. Slowly, deliberately, he shooed the girls away and sat down again, spreading his arms out over the top of the couch, stretching his legs out as insolently as he could. When he was comfortable, he called out permission to enter.

The door opened, and his henchmen ushered in their three captives. The girl struggled a little, trying to break free of her guard's grip, but in the end she was no match for his strength. Soon they were all lined up before the couch, awaiting Enishi's pleasure. He let the silence build a little before he spoke.

"I must say," he said casually, "that I thought you would put up more of a fight. You disappoint me, Himura-san. I know you are capable of far more – I have seen you in action, after all. It was…unforgettable."

The redheaded assassin said nothing.

One of the guards coughed a little, extended a long, lacquered black sheath. "He had this on him, sir."

He took the katana, bowing slightly, and unsheathed it respectfully. "Ah, I had wondered what became of Sakamoto's sword." Swiftly, confidently, he slid it back into the sheath. "He was very proud of it, you know. Passed down through his family for generations."

"Then he should not have been using it on a Bangkok street," Himura said finally. "Anyone could have taken it."

Enishi smiled thinly. He jerked his head, and the guard standing behind Himura smashed his fist into his kidneys, driving him to his knees and depriving him of breath. The girl cried out in dismay. The young, brash fighter snarled, "Hey! You _bastard_ –" He lunged, struggling to escape, and there was a minor scuffle before he was cuffed into growling submission.

"Believe it or not," Enishi continued when peace had been restored, "Sakamoto was accounted to be quite skilled. It was only unfortunate that he met _you – _unfortunate for him, that is, not for me – and that you were better. However, his death did serve a purpose."

"Your…patrons," Himura panted, raising his head and glaring at him.

"Yes," he smiled beatifically, "my patrons. That little scuffle generated enough interest to insure that the upcoming fights will be an outstanding success…"

The girl cried out indignantly. The ex-GI snarled and swore.

Himura only smiled coldly. "What makes you think I'll fight for you?"

Enishi sighed. He jerked his head again, and one of the guards moved away, removing the screen that hid the boy from the rest of the room.

"I'll tell you why," he said with calm menace, as the guard gripped Yahiko's hair and jerked his head back, holding a knife to his throat. "You killed my sister, you renegade, honourless bastard. And now I'm giving you a choice – you can put on the performance of a lifetime for me, letting go of that precious vow never to murder in cold blood again, or you can cause the death of another beloved sibling. It's very simple, Himura. Yes, or no?"

* * *

A/N – Comments/feedback greatly appreciated. Don't feel shy, lurkers.


	6. Ch 6 pt I: Preliminaries

A/N – This chapter was split into two parts. The second part has been posted along with this one.

Disclaimer – I don't own Ruroken.

* * *

**Chapter 6 pt I - Preliminaries**

* * *

It was a perfect circle, a killing circle, set in the middle of a great cement and concrete hall: twenty metres wide, the surface hard, flat dirt. Rather than twisted rope, the boundary was a barbed wire fence – there was no escape, and no mercy.

These games were to the death, and Yukishiro made no attempt to disguise it.

Sano was no stranger to illegal fights. Tough and savvy street fighter that he was, he'd participated in a number of underground matches before, fighting bare fist to bare fist, no rules: pounding his opponent mercilessly into the ground for the pitiful reward of a few thousand baht. It hadn't taken him long to discover that it was a game for fools and young boys desperate for any kind of money or glory – if they died, then there were always more where the poor, gullible bastards came from.

But the competitors here were no desperate, untrained boys, and the spectators were far from drunken street scum, looking for nothing but blood, guts and gore. No, competitors and spectators alike were the elite – the fighters were all killers, masters of their brutal arts, and the spectators were drug czars, arms barons, and shady heads of billion-dollar corporations.

They had been promised a show such as they had never before seen, a tournament starring the very best fighters in the world, the most brutal killers in the underground –

And the star attraction, the prize draw, was Sano's sad, gentle friend…

* * *

"_I'm sorry, Ken. I didn't expect them to make us so quickly. I should have put up more of a fight, tried to knock out one of the guards so you could run –"_

_A shy, rueful smile, a slim, delicate hand on his shoulder – and real strength in that powerful grip, restraining him from jumping up and doing something stupid. "No, Sano. There was nothing either you or I could do."_

"_But I should have –"_

"_What?" The smile disappeared, and Ken's voice sharpened. "Attack trained gunmen with your bare hands? With Miss Kamiya by your side, and her brother at Enishi's mercy? I know you're hot-headed, Sano, but I've never thought you foolish."_

_That stung. Sano bridled a moment, but then took another look at Ken, at his wan, too-pale face and his dark, strained eyes. As a last insult, Yukishiro had returned Ken's sword, saying – in that insufferable, jeering tone – that he trusted Ken would not try to escape, not with Yahiko and the beautiful Miss Kamiya as hostages for his good behaviour. Since then, Ken had gripped the sword against him like a lifeline, his hands playing restlessly over the sheath and hilt, as if he were reminding himself – or reacquainting himself – of its presence, and of its ultimate function. _

_And as his hands grew more and more confident, his speech grew curt, his eyes gradually lost their warmth, and he seemed to reach within himself and remember the cold, trained killer that he had once been… _

* * *

The spectators shifted and murmured, their mingled voices echoing in the concrete hall, the constant offers of wagers and odds contributing to a rising excitement in the atmosphere as they waited for the games to begin. These men were connoisseurs of blood sports, vicarious thrill-seekers who took exquisite pleasure in violence and killing, raising it to an art that they prized above all else –

"_I assure you, gentlemen, this time I will provide you with something extraordinary. A supreme predator: a killer with guns, weapons, his bare hands – even a katana. Perhaps you have heard of Battousai?"_

An urban legend. A myth. A killer who had single-handedly destroyed most of his rivals and competitors on the Mekong, dominating the smuggling routes for close to four years before suddenly disappearing – yes, it was an intriguing prospect. And this deadly killer, this supreme predator, was a small man, slight, who moved with the sleek control of a mountain cat. Seated, coiled, in a clear glass holding cage with his friend, the tall American GI, he somehow drew all eyes towards him in a kind of terrified fascination…

"_You're going to make him fight match after match, opponent after opponent, until he's dragged down by exhaustion and injury… What did he do to you, Yukishiro?" _

Personal – and very public – vengeance was nothing new to them. So long as they were entertained in the process, they were more than willing to watch a man destroyed; it was difficult to find true amusement, after all, when most of them had more money than they knew what to do with.

* * *

Watching the crowd, tasting the humming, electrified atmosphere that he had created, Enishi reveled in his triumph over Himura, the bastard who had murdered his sister, the only woman he had truly loved and trusted. For so many, many years, he had dreamed over and over of that last night, when the maddened killer had broken free of his bonds and began to slaughter his guards, of the moment when Tomoe had moved to stop him from killing General Trang, throwing herself in front of his sword –

And that _bastard_ had _run her through _to get to Trang, so caught up in his frenzy that he'd cut through anything in his way.

Whatever happened to him today, whatever wounds he took, whatever agonies the other competitors (promised bonuses if they could make it painful) inflicted on him, it would never, ever make up for the one mad, frenzied stroke that had destroyed Enishi's life…

"You're enjoying this, aren't you, you bastard," the Kamiya girl accused him, her eyes dark and fierce. "I hope Ken kills _all_ your goddamned fighters and then kills _you –_"

"Shut up!" he hissed, the lovely warm sense of triumph evaporating under the stinging lash of her scorn.

"I won't shut up," she snarled. "You kidnapped my brother and dragged me into a feud that has nothing to do with me; you used me as a hostage to force a man into this tournament that will _kill _him –"

He took a step closer, looming over her. "Shut up!" he shouted, his fists clenched and a vein in his neck bulging. "One more word out of you and I'll wring your fucking neck!"

She swallowed. But she did not back down.

Infuriated, he swung back around to the capacity crowd and the perfect killing circle, but all his pleasure in it was gone.

* * *

"_A sword is a weapon." _

Ken's grandfather, old, dignified, seeming eternal with his dark, narrowed eyes and his curt, staccato Japanese, had pounded those words into him over and over during the course of his training. Ken had never really thought much of it, secure in the knowledge that lethal swordsmanship had gone out with the last century –

Until the first time he'd killed a man with his katana, a swift, vicious _battoujutsu, _a reflex move practiced thousands of times over, and he'd realized just how _personal _it was, how intimate, compared to rifles and machine guns. Years of practice and unrelenting work, all leading to that one effortless stroke – instinct, really, and then the blood was spilling out over his hands in a way that long-range bullets could never bring about.

A refined, exquisite work of art, that first death and all the others – _Hiten Mitsurugi _was like an ink painting, sleek, elegant, the ultimate killing style. And Ken was creator and creation in himself.

Put on exhibition, here, for Enishi's twisted pleasure.

The killing circle drew his eyes, focused his attention to the extent that the rest of the hall faded away. The crowd, the opponents lined up and staring avidly at him, even Sano and Miss Kamiya and her brother – nothing mattered, only the resounding knowledge that today he would have to kill, and kill, and kill, as he had sworn he would never do again…

* * *


	7. Ch 6 pt II: The Killing Circle

A/N – The tournament begins. This is where the story becomes very like a bad martial arts movie. Hopefully, it's not nearly as bad as some of van Damme's worst, though…

Disclaimer – Ruroken belongs to Watsuki-san et al. I make no claim on it.

* * *

**Chapter 6 pt II – The Killing Circle**

* * *

"…_These past few years he had hunted only the lower animals, but he had never forgotten what it was like to hunt down and to kill a human being…"_

_Wilbur Smith, "The Seventh Scroll"._

* * *

"Ladies and gentlemen," Enishi stood up, holding his arms out for attention, his peevish temper forgotten in the triumph of the opening moment. "Welcome, one and all, to my promised tournament, where you will see the most extraordinary bouts ever fought in the underground."

He waited a while for the rumble and murmuring to die away, before he continued. "Today I will show you something different, something extraordinary: a man, fighting not for money, not for glory, but for the life of his friends and companions–" he gestured grandly at the holding cage where the former assassin sat, "my friends, I give you Himura Kenshin, the Battousai –"

Suddenly, unexpectedly, Himura looked up, straight up, and into Enishi's eyes, those flat golden eyes suddenly terrifyingly cold. Enishi faltered.

"Who must kill every single one of his opponents, if he is to win his freedom and his companions' lives. Today, he is the wildcard draw – a gang lord, a pirate, and a ruthless murderer with nothing to lose."

The filthy rich spectators, all of them jaded, and pleasure seeking, were watching with avid, predatory eyes. Enishi felt the power of the moment, the thrill of holding them all in the palm of his hand –

"Let the games begin!" he cried, dropping his arms suddenly and dramatically, a pre-arranged signal to one of his men. There was a roar of anticipation, and the glass door to Himura's holding cage sprang open, freeing him to step out into the killing circle. As the spectators began to shout and clamour, dignity forgotten in the excitement of the moment, the first of the assassin's opponents was released into the circle.

* * *

Kaoru, her hands tied together as she sat beside a grinning, jovial Yukishiro, looked down at the small, red-headed figure and frowned. The Kenjiro she knew was graceful, yes, but his normal walk was slow and measured, his head lowered so that his fringe concealed his eyes and his scarred cheek.

This time, however, he paced into the circle with his head held high, his steps suddenly more than graceful; they were purposeful, perfectly placed, every shift of weight evenly balanced. Instead of slow, deliberate movements, he kept everything to an absolute bare minimum; he was spare, and sleek, and terrifying.

She blinked away sudden tears.

* * *

"_Kenjutsu is the art of killing."_

Cold, cool Kenshin Himura stepped out of the glass cage and into the packed, earthen circle. The flat, smooth floor was solid beneath his feet, and he moved with all his old, lethal grace, the feel of the sword in his hand like an old, trusty friend – more familiar than his rifle had ever been, and much surer.

Behind him, he could hear Sano's voice, a vague, irritating distraction; deliberately, he drowned it out. There was no room for mercy here, no hesitations: if he was to save Miss Kamiya and her brother, if he and Sano were to come out of this alive, he must kill, and kill, and kill, until there was no one left to die…

His entire focus narrowed down to the killing circle, to twenty metres of packed earth, and to his opponent – his _enemy _– stepping slowly into the ring. A young man Thai man, all sleek, ropy muscles and flat, empty eyes, expertly gripping two long, wicked knives. Kenshin was taller, a little, and his sword gave him more reach, but his opponent was younger, stronger, a killer like so many others he'd seen, born and bred on the streets of Bangkok.

The crowd roared, but he ignored them, his senses focused on the feel of the earth beneath his feet, on the dart and flicker of his enemy's eyes, on every hitch and hesitation in his breath and his step. His hands were confident on the sword hilt, his muscle memory powerful and instinctive; as he stepped out to meet the other man, he was calm and absolutely confident of victory.

They circled, the Thai man shifting his footwork and feinting attack and retreat with his blades, Kenshin coolly following, his senses almost hyper-alert. With a flurry of flashing steel and a swift ringing exchange of blows they engaged, Kenshin watching the eyes, not the knives. Kenshin fell back, retreating a step; the other man followed eagerly, pressing home his advantage –

Sidestepping, Kenshin struck –

A hideous screech of metal, and one of the twin daggers snapped. Kenshin's enemy staggered under the unexpected strength of the blow, the force driving him almost to his knees. Immediately, Kenshin followed up, shifting and striking again, from another angle, attacking unrelenting, determined to dispatch this one, and the next, and the next after that…

Rolling, the Thai man barely managed to keep ahead of him, wavering as he stumbled back and resumed his guard, one of his daggers useless, aware for the first time just how dangerous this match had become.

Slowly, Kenshin sheathed his sword.

No mercy. No hesitation.

No warning.

Bending his knees slightly, his right hand playing lightly over the sword's hilt, he gripped, suddenly, and then charged, his muscles coiling as he sped towards his enemy with extraordinary speed and ferocity.

Ten steps. Nine.

Eight, seven, six, five, four, three –

He drew his sword, a swift, sleek, endlessly practiced manoeuvre.

Two steps.

The blade swept out, a shining streak of pure silver killing steel.

One step away –

And his single, devastating strike ended, his arm extended far to the right, slick crimson blood staining the shining length of the blade. Almost in slow motion, the Thai man choked, blood spilling from his open mouth, and then folded and collapsed to the ground, his stomach slashed open with surgical precision.

Kenshin Himura, the assassin, flicked the blood off his blade and sheathed it, his eyes flat, cold and unreadable.

The crowd howled in bloodthirsty delight.

* * *

A/N – Are you not entertained? Please tell me what you think. Feedback is greatly appreciated.


	8. Chapter 8

A/N – A very short chapter, to tide you over while I struggle with the next fight scene.

Thanks to those reviewers who reassured me this story was not equivalent to a bad van Damme movie. Comments are always warmly appreciated.

Disclaimer – I don't own Ruroken. Don't sue.

* * *

**Chapter Eight**

* * *

"Jesus, Ken," Sano murmured under his breath, still trying to assimilate what it was he had just seen.

As if he had heard him, as if he had felt Sano's shock and sudden fear, Ken turned and met Sano's eyes. His expression was strange; distant and remote, as if he had gone far, far away from the man Sano had thought he'd known –

All around him, the roar of the crowd echoed and reverberated, as they howled and stamped and showed their approval of such a clean, masterful kill. Flowers and money rained down upon him, tribute paid to the performer who had entertained them so royally.

Ken made no move to acknowledge his fans, simply standing there, frozen, his erstwhile opponent crumpled and broken at his feet.

* * *

They dragged the dead fighter away by his heels, leaving dark crimson trails of blood soaking into the sand. Kenshin watched, stone-faced, as a group of workers swarmed across the circle, quickly restoring the pristine surface before the next match. His stomach twisted, and he felt suddenly sick. He had killed more than a hundred men – guilty and innocent, rich and poor, powerful and pawn – but never before had he seen such brutal disregard for human life and dignity.

Filled with sudden, terrible hatred, he tilted his head back to look up to where Yukishiro sat and overlooked the vicious, brutal trap he had created with such vengeful glee. He wondered how many more men the yakuza leader was willing to sacrifice in the name of empty, ultimately unfulfilling vengeance.

And then he saw it, and heard the scream.

* * *

"You monster!" Kaoru shouted again, her dark blue eyes glowing furiously. "You can't imagine what you've done…!"

Yukishiro's face twisted and his eyes grew almost bloodshot with rage. Rising up from his seat, he spun around, grabbed Yahiko by his shirtfront and lifted him off his seat.

"Do you hear your sister, boy?" he screamed, flecks of foam and saliva flying with his temper. "Doesn't she know how to talk to her betters? Didn't your father ever teach her her proper place?"

Yahiko began to struggle and choke. "Let go of my brother!" Kaoru shouted, flying to his defence. "Let _go!"_

Turning on her, Yukishiro backhanded her and sent her sprawling, crying out to the floor.

"Shut up, _bitch_! Don't ever raise your voice to me again!"

Modern, independent Kaoru held a hand to her smarting, stinging cheek and stared at him in absolute, uncomprehending shock.

* * *

"Kaoru!" he shouted, his hands clenched on the sword's hilt. Unthinking of the consequences, he leaped over the barbed wire fence that separated the circle from the crowd and charged towards Enishi. The crowd drew back, panicked, screaming and trying to get out of his way. He paid them no heed, all his attention fixed on Enishi and the memory of Ka- Miss Kamiya's scream –

"Ken!" he heard Sano shout from somewhere behind him. He ignored it.

Leather-jacketed security guards swept towards him, guns out and ready to shoot.

"Don't shoot him, fools!" Enishi shouted. "I want him alive!"

Hastily putting the guns away, they pulled out tasers and cattle prods, smiling cruelly and sniggering in anticipation. Kenshin bore down on them and drew his sword, the old, graceful movements coming instinctively –

One down, clutching his stomach and screaming as he tried to hold in his guts. Another, shocked, staring at the stump of his wrist. A third parried with the cattle prod and could not recover in time.

And then a fourth, fifth and sixth overwhelmed him from behind, distracting him just long enough to shock him. He arched and cried out in pain, and then they shocked him again and again and again…

* * *

Shocked and horrified at Battousai's sudden escape, Enishi trembled as he walked over to stand by the unconscious swordsman. Viciously, he drew back his foot and kicked him in the ribs. The American girl cried out in protest, but drew back and shut her mouth when Enishi rounded on her again.

* * *

"Well, well," murmured a Colombian drug czar, reclining back in his chair and sipping an exotic cocktail. "That was certainly interesting. The American very nearly turned the entire game on its head."

His audience, a grim, taciturn American, only frowned. "He reacted to the girl's cry."

"Yes. An unthinking reaction." He smiled cruelly. "I wonder if Yukishiro recognizes it; it gives him the chance for an exquisite, far more fitting revenge."

"The way I heard it," the American said, "Yukishiro himself set his sister up for a fall. He sent her in to betray Himura to the VC, and then cried when she was caught between them."

The Colombian laughed. "Rationality has little bearing on matters such as these. Yukishiro is a man consumed by hatred, and nothing will dissuade him from this very public spectacle of vengeance." He sighed. "It seems a magnificent waste, though. I've never seen such a natural killer…"

The American grunted, his eyes fixed on the slight, redheaded body as Yukishiro's thugs hauled him back to the circle and dumped him on the sand. That young, delicate face, that feral grace – how many years had it been? Could it possibly be the same man? Major Katsura had made sure that the men under his command never came into contact with one another. But still, there had always been whispered rumours of the Major's super-assassin, who had somehow fallen out of contact after Katsura's death in '73…

"Yukishiro should never have given him a weapon. Men like that one are too dangerous to risk – he should have just shot him in the head."

"Yes, he should have. But he won't."

* * *

Swearing frantically under his breath, Sano ran out and knelt next to Ken's slumped body. Bruises and electrical burns from the tasers covered his arms and torso, and he still shuddered and spasmed with the aftershocks. Pressing his hand to Ken's ribs – that _bastard _Yukishiro – he was glad to find that there were no broken or fractured ribs…

"Wake him up, American," a pierced and tattooed yakuza thug sneered at him. "His next fight is in five minutes."

"What?" Sano shouted, incredulous. "You're still going to make him fight? After what you did with those cattle prods?"

"The deal is that he fights until either he's dead, or every one of his opponents is. He's not dead, and so he faces his next opponent." The thug grinned. "Five minutes. Make sure he's awake and moving, or else he'll be a very easy target…"

* * *

"And now," a rich, practiced voice announced, "the next fight will begin…"

* * *

A/N – Next week: Kenshin's next fight.


End file.
